Having Them Both
by defibrillator
Summary: One-shot that takes place during and just after the Victory Tour in Catching Fire. Katniss and Peeta attempt to make the most of their arrangement by indulging in lustful indiscretions. Katniss fulfills a fantasy with Gale with Peeta's blessing. Katniss/Peeta; Katniss/Gale. Rated M for strong sexual content and erotic language. Something of a lemon.


I think my hair is on fire. The heat feels too close behind me as I flee the blaze that is too patterned and too calculated to have been an accident - to have not been fabricated by a Gamemaker to smoke me out. The carefully aimed fireball that hurtles toward my head confirms it. I'm running as fast as I can but everything seems lethargic and sluggish, and I have that vague sensation of being underwater. I'm normally a fast runner, but this time my body is too fatigued and stubborn to respond to urgency. I realize the trademark signs of dream-state movement just as I escape the blaze and emerge from the trees to be greeted by Cato, who thrusts his spear straight into my head.

I awake with a start, a guttural series of noises coming from me that are somewhere between screams and panicked panting. My body instinctively flails about in the dark, impulsively defensive. My brain knows it was just another night terror, that I'm safe now aboard the train that plows through the districts as we undertake our Victory Tour, but my body is still an uncontrollable vessel of reflexes and nerves. I jolt at the slightest unexpected noise, movement, or touch. The night terrors still inundate my sleep. It's going to be like this for the rest of my life. I can no longer censure Haymitch for his incessant drinking. I wonder how long it will take before I go down that road. I see myself in ten years, haggard and as though I've aged twice as much, sloppy and disgruntled and impatient, a cynical old hag who regards the tributes I mentor as cattle being led to their slaughter. Or mere inconveniences that hinder the acquisition of my next drink. The thought makes me gag, but the image dissipates when Peeta hurriedly bursts into the room.

Something about his expression softens the disquiet in me. Always a wealth of compassion and selflessness, that boy. His face is flooded with concern and perhaps a bit of protectiveness as well, lit by an undercurrent of urgency that comes with the innate passion to keep me safe. Before the Games, I would have resented it. I would have found it condescending and nauseating that someone would think me so weak and vulnerable to require protection. I think a part of me still does. _I'm_ supposed to be the protector. But it's different now. The horrors in that arena changed me, permanently. I no longer balk at the prospect of expressing vulnerability. I just try to express it when no one's looking. But right now, I just need to be held. I have a hard time even admitting it to myself.

"Peeta, will you stay with me?" My voice sounds shrill and disingenuous, and I wince at how pathetic I sound to myself. I'm not used to asking for things like this. I'm not used to feeling like this.

The urgency in his eyes flickers to something else. Confusion, maybe? Apprehension. I must have sounded sarcastic and stupid to him as well. _Fantastic_. But then I realize that he never would have expected such a request from me. He's become so accustomed to my indifference since the Games, since the absence of the cameras, it's taken him off-guard that I would do such a thing with no audience to emotionally manipulate. I see that flash of doubt - his face is always an open book, too easy to ascertain what he's thinking or feeling - and I almost feel like I can see him working it out in his head, what could possibly motivate me to request his intimate company. It's only for a second though, not even long enough to be really considered a hesitation, and he acquiesces, sliding between the sheets with me and settling down beside me so that I can rest my head on his shoulder.

He's bare down to his waist, wearing only a pair of loose training pants. His body is warm, his arm strong and firm as he pulls me against his side. I'm tense, not sure I remember how to do this and feeling incredibly awkward, but the arm that embraces me gently tightens around me in a subtle gesture of reassurance, his fingers idly tracing soft caresses over my side and back. It's a soothing touch, and finally I relax against him, hypnotized into a detached lethargy by the slow, steady rhythm of his heart and the motion of the speeding train. I don't quite fall asleep, but I hover somewhere comfortably in between, conscious enough to distantly notice fleeting little sensations, but not quite asleep enough to return to the horrors of my memories. It feels good. I don't think I quite expected this. _He_ feels good. He keeps tracing faint caresses over my waist, and I pretend not to notice how he surreptitiously inches the hem up on my night camisole so that his fingers can brush against bare skin. It's a pleasant sensation, and I have to force myself to stifle a small moan of contentment in the back of my throat. I'm not allowed to enjoy this. I'm only doing it out of necessity.

I feel him press his lips to the top of my head, hear him slowly inhale the scent of my hair, and something else catches in my throat - that same feeling I had that time we kissed in the Games, the only time I ever felt a spark of emotion for him during the entirety of our performance as the ill-fated lovers from District 12. I'm grateful for the darkness and that my face is hidden so he doesn't see my suppressed smile. I'm grateful it's too dark for him to see the chillbumps that have crawled over my skin at the sensation of his warm, fluttering touch at my waist. I hope he's asleep, because I nestle deeper into his embrace, subconsciously nuzzling into his chest as I breathe in his scent. I try to be subtle about it, not wanting to show an obvious display of affection. I _am_ half asleep, and I could pass it off as an unconscious repositioning to make myself more comfortable. He responds to the movement, and I can tell by the tightening of the muscles of his chest that he's craning his neck to try and see my face. His embrace tightens gently around me for a brief moment, and his caresses to my waist and back become more assertive as he daringly pulls my shirt up even further without even bothering with the pretense of accident anymore.

I draw a deep breath at his bold touch, melting against him as I'm brought to the surface of wakefulness now, fighting the sudden, inexplicable urge to bury my face in his chest and press my lips to his heartbeat. It's such a nagging desire that I keep finding myself on the verge of doing it, and I keep having to hide the gesture by lightly running the tip of my nose along his chest. His fingertips continue their caresses as his other hand finds my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone before he's running his fingers gently through my hair. He presses his lips to the top of my head again, a long, lingering kiss that sends an electric warmth through my entire body, and I turn my face upward so that I'm nuzzling at his neck, warming the tip of my nose in the heat of his pulse. His fingers travel higher up my waist, brushing against my ribcage, and I tense nervously as his hand comes a little too close to the curve of the side of my breast. He courteously draws his hand away, but he's looking down at me in the darkness now, and I can feel his eyes burning into me with such intensity that I'm afraid to see what emotion lies behind them.

The hand that toyed with my hair is now cradling my neck, his thumb tracing my jawline as he delicately guides me back so I'm forced to look into his eyes. "You know, it's eventually going to have to come to this, Katniss," he says softly, his voice gruff with the bleakness of reality, though he's unable to hide the strained excitement and hope behind it. "You know what's expected of us. We're going to at least have to...try."

I'm suddenly cursing how close we are now, because I know he can feel the frantic pounding of my nervous heart against his ribcage. I can't even bear the nakedness of strangers, much less fathom the prospect of intimacy. I realize that the concept of it terrifies me. It's not something I've ever really thought about, because survival was always the one thing predominant in my mind. The Capitol expects us to get married. And we'll have to consummate that marriage. I feel myself blanch at the possibility that they'll probably invite camera crews along for the sensational experience. The entire Capitol has become so infatuated by our romance that the more I think about it, the less absurd it seems that they would be that invasive with our relationship. I know my sense of panic is palpable, because he senses it and his caresses to my waist and neck become slower, gentler, the way one might calm a frightened animal.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he says apologetically, his thumb grazing along my bottom lip. "You're not obligated to do anything until you're ready."

As if in defiance of my diffidence, my body stubbornly resists and I feel a twinge between my legs, as if an electric current suddenly brought to life the most intimate part of me. The way his thumb affectionately touches my lower lip stirs something inside me, and I feel my heart jump erratically within my chest as my breath catches in my throat. "Have you ever made love before?" I ask weakly, feeling foolish because my voice shakes when I speak. I'm mortified that we're even talking about this.

He gives a tight smile and shakes his head.

"Me neither," I answer awkwardly, though it's unnecessary because I know he already knows this. As if my bashful reaction to naked men wasn't obvious enough.

"Although I've...entertained myself before," he says, his smile becoming slightly mischievous when I attempt to hide my blush in his chest.

_Probably thinking about me_, I think, and immediately I chastise myself for being so vain and vulgar, but the pragmatist in me knows it's probably dreadfully true. The image instantly flashes through my head - of him alone with the self-inflicted pleasures of his hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself to relief as he whispers my name. And suddenly, the thought of it isn't humiliatingly obscene to me anymore, but somehow vaguely flattering - endearing, even. And, though I hate to admit it even to myself in the deepest recesses of my subconscious, I find something tantalizingly erotic about it as well. Not only that he pleasured himself, but that he trusts me enough to confess that he did it. The moment feels increasingly intimate now, and I realize it's because in an instant, he's gone from chaste, adolescent lover to being thrust into my awareness as a sexual being, and now the image of him as a man with carnal desires is something I can no longer avoid. As if in enthusiastic affirmation of this, I shift in his embrace, feeling the rigid and unavoidable protrusion of his arousal brush against the inside of my bare thigh, and I flinch at the realization that the only thing between him and my naked body is a sheer camisole and my underwear.

I feel him stiffen, and I know it's because he expects a mortified reaction from me, ready to distance himself from me in an instant in respect for my modesty. Instead I pull into his embrace, leaning in to the tentative kiss he's been wanting to give me since I fully awoke. I'm suddenly very aware of his chest and his stomach and his arms and his neck and those muscular thighs pressing against mine and my curiosity at what it would be like, to be completely intimate with him, and I'm no longer embarrassed and jittery because the curiosity has consumed everything. I can't help but stare at the muscles of his arms in the dim light of the moon filtering through the window, at how his shoulders flex at even the slightest movement, the way that muscle in his forearm seems to dance whenever he merely clenches his fist. There's the way his collarbone beautifully accentuates the chiseled hardness of his chest, and my fingers apprehensively trace along those lines, just innocent, curious exploration, but I don't miss how his breath hisses between his teeth, or the way I can feel the chillbumps crawl over his skin beneath my touch.

He kisses me softly, lightly sucking on my bottom lip and letting his mouth linger there as he crushes me against him, and there's that sensation of warmth in the hollow of my chest again that spreads through my body and makes me feel like static is dancing wildly over my skin. It's like that moment in the cave in the arena, where I felt that initial twinge of..._something_...and I wanted him to kiss me like that again, only to be left wanting. This time he shows no restraint, and he takes my bottom lip in his mouth again, and again, each kiss becoming deeper and more passionate than the first, and my fingers are tracing a line down his chest and softly kneading his firm stomach, appreciating how he's filled out so nicely right under my nose, and in this moment, the only word I can think to use to describe him is 'man-shaped.' His muscles are solid beneath my fingertips, but his skin is soft from the labors of his prep team and the effects of the luxurious showers. It's like touching stone through cashmere, and I keep grazing my fingers over the lines of his stomach because I find the sensation delightful, oblivious to how it teases him until he stills my hand in his.

He pulls out of the kiss and rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed and a little crease working its way into the center of his brow, as if he's in mild discomfort. To be fair, he probably is. "You were just swept up into this plan with no warning. I feel awful that I didn't consult with you before all of this...that I never spoke to you before the reaping. I think maybe all of this would have been much easier if we'd at least already been friends. I'm more of a stranger to you than you are to me."

"A lot of things happened in the arena," I say, inching back a little so I can inspect his eyes. There's a warmth and affection there that initially made me feel a little uncomfortable, but it's beginning to grow on me. "I feel I've known you for a lifetime."

He smiles a little and lowers his eyelids, obscuring the emotion in his eyes. "The point is, Katniss...I know you feel pressured into this. And that's the last thing I want you to feel. I know that...genuinely wanting me is a bit much to ask of you - " he places his thumb on my bottom lip again as I begin to protest - "but I want to at least make you feel comfortable. And safe. ...I want to make this easy for you, so that we can make the most of this...arrangement."

I gasp at the touch on my lips again, a heavy sigh swelling in my chest at the compassion and finesse he's showing for me. _You could do a lot worse, you know_. I hear Haymitch's condescending drawl in my head, and I know he's right. Always thinking of me, Peeta. So selfless. I hate to think it, but he wouldn't have survived the Games if not for me. He's too morally pure. He's too much of a saint. But then, where would _I_ have been without _him_. We wouldn't have survived without each other. And in this moment, his thumb soft and gentle as it caresses my bottom lip, his palm working soothing, rhythmic circles into my back, I think, _Maybe I can do this_. Maybe this isn't so bad, after all. Spending my life with someone who cares so much about how I feel and respects my boundaries so much is really not the worst thing that could happen.

I think he senses my relief, because he leans forward to kiss me again, holding my chin in his thumb and forefinger so he can tilt my head back and continue a light trail of kisses along my jawline. I feel the warmth of his lips brush against my neck and I swell into him, gasping at how surprisingly pleasant it feels. His lips part there and he nips softly at my skin, leaving slow, lingering kisses in a line just below the hinge of my jaw and he chuckles against my throat. "I love the way your pulse feels in my mouth," he whispers against my ear, and I feel a vibrating sensation in my chest, as though a butterfly has been trapped in the center of my ribcage. "It's so frantic when you're too flustered to enjoy how much this excites you."

"_Peeta!_" It's meant to be a scolding chastisement, but it comes out a little too breathy and instead sounds wanton and lustful. I'm pretty sure he knows what I meant, but pretends to take it as encouragement and continues to nip at my neck anyway.

I give in and lift my chin to welcome him, his mouth moving down the curve of my neck and across the top of my shoulder where he pauses to slide the thin strap of my camisole over my skin and continue his trail of tentative, exploratory kisses. His fingers have been idly fidgeting with the hem of the camisole, inching it higher and higher up my ribcage until I realize I'll either have to tell him to stop or allow him to continue, and I find that I have a hard time working up the constitution to tell him no. His touch is so slow and deliberate, a calculated approach to allow me enough time to tell him to stop if I feel it's going too far. Instead I slowly raise my arms to help him pull the garment up over my head, and it's almost as if a restrained look of pain creases his brow when he looks at my bare chest. He smiles and lightly trails his thumb down the curve of my breast, and I'm thankful for the fulfilling diet my winnings have afforded me so that I could fill out enough to have something he could appreciate. Somehow I think my emaciated, pre-Games figure wouldn't have been as gratifying.

He lightly weighs my breast in his palm, delighting in its springiness. "You have no idea how many times I've pictured you this way," he whispers, and I blush, even though I subconsciously already knew. He shifts so that he's easing me onto my back, rolling onto his side so that he can gaze down at me and trace my newly acquired curves beneath his fingertips. "I should like to kiss you," he says, his voice low and hoarse.

My brows knit together in confusion. "Well, you've already been doing plenty of that..." I say, wondering why he's only now seemingly asking permission.

A coy smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Not here," he says, touching my lips with his thumb again. Then his fingers trace a faint line down my neck and between my breasts, continuing a fluttering trail down the center of my stomach that ends in a fleeting touch that brushes between my legs. "I want to kiss you down here." There's a low purr to his voice now, a seductiveness I've never heard before, and my breath catches in my throat at the provocative suggestion. I know I'm blushing madly and I can tell by the glint in his eyes that he's enjoying every second of it.

The thought is at first horrifying, but then I think of the way his mouth felt on my neck and I immediately imagine that same sensation in the place that now seems to be humming with nagging lust, yearning again for that fleeting almost-touch of his fingers again. I even find myself unconsciously lifting my hips in the hope that it will alleviate the ache there, that it will make him touch me there again. That's when I feel a tiny burst of moisture in my underwear, as though a small berry has been crushed there, and I can feel it seeping through the fabric where his fingers had just grazed me. I close my eyes and sigh in answer to his request, which seems to be enough for him. He leans forward and leaves lingering kisses down the center of my throat, explores the curves of my breasts with his lips, coaxing his way down my stomach and pausing to dip the tip of his tongue into my navel. It's a shock of pleasure, and somehow the sensation there seems to be directly connected to the ache between my legs, because I feel it there too, even though he hasn't yet touched me there. His tongue slowly circles my navel a couple of times, his eyes shifting upward toward me and locking with mine in an enticing glare and I know it's meant to be a preamble, of sorts. He's silently telling me, _This is what's about to happen to you down there_.

I'm too frenzied by what he's doing to care about restraint anymore. My mind is clouded, and I can no longer swallow my moans. There's something between a whimper and a low sigh that escapes me, and I close my eyes against the pleasure. He withdraws his tongue and continues kissing a straight line below my navel until he comes to the waistline of my undergarments, where he teasingly runs the tip of his nose along my skin just above the elastic. His hands are on either side of my hips, fingers twitching at the waistband, waiting for me to tell him to stop. The moisture in my undergarments has accumulated to such a degree that it's becoming uncomfortable and sticky, and I'd rather be rid of them. He runs a finger lightly along the length of the aching folds between my legs again, chuckling to himself when he feels I'm seeping through the fabric. He pulls the garment down over my hips, sliding it along my thighs where I cringe at the small vestige of moisture that rubs against my skin. I'm surprised at how uncomfortable I am at my own fluids. I'm more surprised at how much of it I seem to have produced.

"And I haven't even really _done_ anything yet," he warns mischievously, and another whimper-sigh dies in my throat.

I don't know why I'm so nervous about being laid bare before him. I've been just as naked in front of my prep team. They've stripped me smooth down there as well, and there's no longer a merciful tuft of hair between my legs to hide behind. It occurs to me that it's different being naked for Peeta because I actually care about his opinion. I want to speculate on what this says about how I feel about him, but I don't get the chance because his lips are dancing further downward, brushing over the immaculate smoothness there. Finally, he presses his lips to the aching mound between my legs, kissing me softly there just as he kissed me when I first woke, light and sweet and remarkably chaste before parting his lips and sucking slightly on that tender nodule of flesh and nerves that so powerfully delivers me to the whims of ecstasy. He places several slow, open-mouthed kisses there, then flicks his tongue against it once, then twice, pressing the tip of his tongue into me with increasing pressure until he's tracing a lethargic line up and down in rhythm with my slow, deep panting.

His hands are warm as they stroke my thighs, his tongue changing its up and down rhythm to slow circles that increase in intensity and speed, a sporadic motion that keeps me on edge. I reach down and run my fingers through his hair, wanting to press him harder into me, but his tongue is stroking me in a swift rhythm now, and my mind begins to slip as I feel an odd sensation building up just behind my navel and tighten in my thighs. "Peeta," I gasp, and he presses his tongue against me with increased fervor, and all that exists in the world is the way the tip of his tongue feels against that sensitive bit of flesh there. The circles he makes become more focused, falling into a steady rhythm that finally pulls me over the edge that causes my entire body to go rigid, my back arching as I press myself against his mouth. My insides tighten and spasm with an explosion of pleasure, and my mouth is open, though for a moment, no sound comes out. I'm paralyzed by the shock of ecstasy. Finally my teeth clench and a long, low moan escapes, followed by a slow, deep breath, and then another moan, and it continues this way as I ride it out, rocking my hips beneath the slowing motion of his tongue. I hear my moans, a low, strangled sound that could be mistaken for someone being tortured, and I realize in this context, it seems remarkably lewd. The fluids have flowed with incredible intensity from between my legs, and I feel the uncomfortably moist spot that's soaked the sheets beneath me as my body finally falls limp beneath his mouth.

I'm breathing heavily, my eyes closed as his hands still gently stroke my thighs. I can feel my pounding heartbeat throbbing between my legs with increased intensity, and I'm overwhelmed by the sense of contented gratification I feel. I wonder where he learned to do that. I feel his soft lips against my thighs, placing sweet kisses there as I come down from the climax. If I weren't so clouded by pleasure, I would be mortified that he has now seen every part of me, that even now he's gazing at the intimate parts between my legs with an almost reverent expression.

He rests his chin on my thigh and looks up at me. "It's absolutely maddening to see you moist and split open like a ripe peach this way," he says quietly.

I inhale sharply at the offhand eroticism of his words. It would have been obscene if the look in his eyes wasn't one of unwavering adoration. He tilts his head slightly to inspect me there again, and a warm smile touches upon his lips.

"I could do it for you now, with my fingers, if you wish," he says quietly. "You're relaxed enough that it wouldn't hurt so much."

My heart skips at the vague suggestion, but I know exactly what he's implying. He's always so gentle and coaxing, and lately everything he says, every small look or touch, seems specifically calculated to make my breath catch in my throat and my body weak. I wonder if he's doing it on purpose. But he's staring at me steadily with those affectionate eyes, and I know he's patiently awaiting an answer. His hand delicately grips my thigh now, ready to do it on my command, his thumb slowly running back and forth across my skin.

"No," I say quickly, not really giving myself time to think about it and wanting desperately to avoid the conversation altogether.

He seems a little disappointed for a moment, his eyelids dropping so I can't see the expression in his gaze, and he nods once. "You want it to be _him_," he says quietly. "You want to remain intact for him."

I can't hide my gasp of surprise. _Gale_. To be honest, I hadn't even been thinking about him. And then I hate myself, because I realize I probably should have. I feel horrible for not having kept him in consideration. I feel guilty for having enjoyed this licentious moment at all, for giving in to the Capitol's arrangement for me. I feel like I've committed some act of compliance simply by allowing myself a moment of passion with the boy they've assigned to me. I think about what Peeta just did to me, and then I imagine what it would have felt like if it had been Gale's tongue stroking me to the edge. I close my eyes and moan before I have the mind to suppress it. I realize I want it very much. I want Gale to do that to me. But it's Peeta who is here with me now, and he's been so charitable and patient, and now it occurs to me that I'm guilty of selfishness at the expense of both of them, and there's absolutely nothing I can do that can make it at all fair for either of them. Or for me. Why can't I just have them both?

Peeta rubs a reassuring hand over my thigh and reaches over to retrieve a fresh linen handkerchief from one of the drawers. "It's okay, Katniss," he says, compassion saturating his voice. "I know he had you first. I don't mind if you're not a virgin for me. I just want _you_." He gently dabs at the moisture between my legs, wiping me clean from the bothersome fluids that have been an idle annoyance since I came down from my climax. It's such a simple but affectionately intimate gesture, and this small charity from him makes my heart swell for him. I wish he'd been boorish and dreadful like Haymitch. Then it would be easier for me to still want Gale. I'd be entitled to my selfishness and reticence. But now I feel like I'm indebted to Peeta, and that I'm being childish and petty for wanting out.

"Peeta," I whisper, and there's a sob at the back of my throat that I thankfully swallow back down, but there's no hiding the tears that crystallize in my eyes.

"Hey, come on. Don't do that," he says, crawling back up over me and brushing my cheekbone with his thumb. He kisses my forehead and pulls me against him, continuing the sweet caresses from before. "Go back to sleep, Katniss," he coaxes, pulling the covers back up around us and stroking me gently until I fall asleep.

There are no nightmares this time. It's difficult to tell if my peaceful sleep is a result of what we just did or the comfort of his closeness, or both. I wake before him, just as the sun is rising, but I don't hurry to get up. His warmth is too pleasant, his heartbeat a slow, steady thud in my ear. I doze a little longer before I gently extricate myself from the arm that envelops me, indulging in a shower to rinse away any evidence of last night's events. All of my clothes are still in the chest of drawers near my bed, and I emerge in just a towel, seeing him awake and gazing out the window. He turns his attention toward me and smiles, and I can't help but draw my gaze to his mouth, a flash of last night assaulting my thoughts. My knees feel weak. I go to the plush couch and immediately sit, pulling my towel close around me. He rises from his seat on the bed and slowly crosses the room toward me, taking a seat on the low table just in front of me. His movements are cautious and deliberate, and I get the feeling he's doing this intentionally to seem as nonthreatening as possible.

"You don't have to feel obligated to do that again," he reassures me, and I see him reach his hand out as if he's going to rest it on my thigh, but he quickly rethinks the gesture and withdraws. "It's okay if you didn't like it. ...But I hope it's not too inappropriate for me to say that...I did." Is there a blush to his cheeks? Hard to tell.

I have a hard time meeting his eyes, and I curse the blush that comes to my own cheeks. "That's the problem, Peeta," I say quietly. "...I _did_ like it."

He seems puzzled for a moment, but his face quickly falls into one of understanding as he figures it out. "You feel you've betrayed Gale in some way." He says it so succinctly, and again I'm angry with myself for being so indifferent and selfish with Peeta, who is always so aware of everyone's feelings. "It wasn't my intention to draw you away from him. I don't want you to feel as though I've seduced you."

I wince and shake my head. "I know." I'm surreptitiously glancing at him through the corner of my eye, and my gaze keeps falling to his mouth. There's that creeping disquiet between my legs again, and I shift uncomfortably in hopes of discreetly quelling it.

He's silent for a moment, and I see that he's wearing a smug grin and scrutinizing me closely. "You're squeezing your thighs together, Katniss," he says, his voice nothing more than a soft purr.

I finally gather up the courage to look him directly in the eyes, and there's a smug confidence there, but beneath it is that same adoration as always, accompanied by a silent request for permission. _Would you like for me to do it again? _The tension in my thighs goes slack as I feel that affectionate weakness in my body again, and I'm grateful I'm sitting down because I would have crumpled to the floor had I been standing. I want to avert my eyes but I can't, because I'm consumed by that surge of desire that kills any restraint in me. Instead I boldly hold his gaze, slowly sitting back against the cushions as my knees part slightly. There's not even a second's hesitation before he swoops down between my legs, easing them apart as his hands reach up under my towel to stroke my thighs. He presses his lips to the inside of my thigh, his eyes moving upward to catch my gaze with that daring, hypnotic glare again. He stares right at me as his lips part and he places a soft bite there, causing me to give a little cry of surprise at the fleeting pain and the rush of pleasure that accompanies it. I'm rigid with nervous anticipation as I watch him, with no merciful cover of darkness now to offer the pretense of modesty. He keeps those eyes on me as he kisses his way up the inside of my thigh, and I realize there's no point in anticipating his actions, so I stretch my arms out along the back of the couch and let my head fall back, closing my eyes and making myself as pliable as possible for him, peacefully enjoying the tingling warmth of his lips as they draw closer and closer to the throbbing ache between my legs.

The way he holds my thighs is so assertive and sweet, his mouth working coaxing kisses into the spot between my legs, eliciting sporadic moans from me every time I feel myself close to the edge. Each time I do, he eases up, skirting away from making me climax too soon, and I suddenly grow frustrated with this and a whimper escapes me at his cruel teasing. He's intentionally drawing it out. He wants to build it up so that when he finally allows me release, it will incapacitate me. He drives the tip of his tongue with too-perfect precision against the ache in that magical little spot that controls my pleasure, and I think I say something vulgar. I can't help it, it feels too good and there's no sound I could make, no word in existence that could ever genuinely describe with any justice how good it feels.

"_Nnngg_ Peeta," I moan, flexing my hips upward, pressing myself harder into his mouth. "That's perfect," I simper under my breath, hardly able to vocalize anything. "Just there..."

There's another shrill chirp, and it could have come from me, but I realize it's too displaced for it to have escaped from me in a daze of pleasure. I then notice the disturbance in the air, as though a door has opened, and I feel the presence of someone else just as my eyes slowly open and I lift my head from the back of the couch to see Effie standing there, frozen on the spot with her eyes wide, her face quickly turning a shade of puce that matches her hair. I can only imagine what she must see, my body lasciviously spread out on the couch with Peeta's face buried firmly between my legs, and I'm about to throw him off of me and frantically cover myself with my towel when Effie squeaks with humiliated apology again and scampers out of the room, leaving us alone again.

If Peeta noticed, he doesn't show it. His tongue continues its expert precision, driving a rhythm to the center of my pleasure, my stomach tightening in preface to the explosion I know is about to come. He doesn't ease up this time, and I rock my hips back and forth with the movement of his tongue until I erupt in ecstasy, intentionally making my moans into audible cries that must be mockingly chasing Effie as she retreats down the hallway of the compartment. _That'll teach her to knock next time_. I can only imagine the lecture we'll probably get about getting fluids on the luxurious Capitol textiles. _That is brushed suede!_ I hear in her comical scolding accent.

"We should probably go to breakfast," he says, gently wiping me clean with my towel and rising to retrieve a set of clothes for me.

I lay there panting for a moment, grabbing his hand and pulling him down on the couch beside me. "In a minute," I say, resting my head on his shoulder. In truth, I'm not sure I can stand just yet. "You know Effie just saw us," I say warningly, not wanting to face breakfast because of how awkward I know it's going to be.

"I know," he says nonchalantly.

"Wait, what?"

He shrugs. "I wasn't going to stop. That would have been cruel, you were so close. She should have knocked."

I stare at him, puzzling at this new attitude from him that seems so divergent from how I'm used to seeing him. He's so confident and assertive now, almost to the point of aggressiveness, and I remember I saw a glimpse of this side of him in District 11 not days before, in the dome of the Justice Building. He was angry then, steaming with heated fury at how Haymitch and I had found him too inconsequential to include him in my precarious situation with President Snow, but he was also bolder, more confident, and the Peeta that sits here beside me now with little regard for propriety at our sexual liaison is one and the same. Perhaps the arena has changed him more than I thought. I don't say it, but I like it. I find it attractive, even.

He must think I'm appalled at his cool indifference to Effie's intrusion because he reaches up and reassuringly strokes my hair. "Don't concern yourself with it, Katniss. She's an adult, I'm sure she can handle it."

I snort and pull back, fixing him with a doubtful glare. "You sure about that?"

We laugh and force ourselves to get up and ready ourselves for breakfast, gingerly emerging from my room and glancing about the car to see if anyone's around. We're both prepared for a stern lecture, but Effie pointedly avoids so much as looking at us when we sit down to breakfast. Haymitch's bloodshot glare lingers on each of us - he probably hasn't been to bed yet - glancing from one to the other as his tired, calculating eyes try to piece together the awkward silence and rigid postures. I chance a sideways glance at Peeta, who's coolly inspecting a strawberry as he expertly removes the stem from the top, and I know he's intentionally teasing me when his tongue flicks out and pries at its now hollowed out center. I choke on my muffin, our eyes meeting for just a moment as we share a devious glance with one another, our faces stiffening with the effort to hold back our smiles. I hear a utensil clatter down on a plate, and I look up to see that Effie is staring in horror and perhaps mild fascination at Peeta's inappropriate display. His eyes shift to her and he insolently holds her gaze, continuing to suggestively probe the strawberry with his tongue before finally popping it into his mouth. I kick him under the table, inclining my head to one side as I fix him with a wide-eyed, imploring glare. The nonchalance, the indifference from before - I can get that, but _this_ \- this is downright brazen behavior. He's _cocky_.

He's officially humiliated Effie, and she nervously rises from her seat and traipses out with flustered awkwardness. Haymitch stares after her, then turns his chastising glare on us. "What the hell was that all about?" he asks, spiking his coffee from a flask he procured from the inside pocket of his blazer.

I immediately look downward, suddenly fascinated by my sausage and gravy. Peeta calmly picks up a napkin and unfolds it with a flourished whip, then places it on his lap before smoothly buttering a scone. Haymitch watches this display with slightly impatient suspicion, and Peeta finally shrugs in answer. "Effie walked in on me pleasuring Katniss with my tongue," he says simply, as though he were commenting on something as trivial as the way the eggs were prepared.

I silently chide him for disclosing this information just as Haymitch takes a sip of his coffee, and I brace myself to dive sideways to dodge what I don't doubt will soon be a powerful spit-take in my direction. Haymitch manages to choke it down though, shifting his eyes between us as he tries to find an appropriate response. He eventually sets his cup down and dabs at his mouth with his napkin before throwing it down on his plate.

"Well, it's certainly good to see you two finally warming up to one another," he says dryly. "Let's only hope rumors of your indiscretions make their way back to President Snow." He pushes up from the table and leaves us alone.

I set my utensils down and swiftly turn to Peeta. "_What the hell are you doing?!_" I hiss.

He very deliberately sets down his scone and leans back, fixing me with the gravest look I've ever seen on him. It doesn't seem to settle properly on his features, or perhaps that's just my personal bias at being so unaccustomed to seeing him anything other than boyish. "From what you and Haymitch told me in 11, President Snow's got you in a really difficult position. He's got you in his crosshairs and he's just waiting for an excuse to hurt you in some way. Me included. I think we've far surpassed the point where innocent love is going to be enough to convince him and satiate our audience. If they want ribald passion, then let's give it to them. Make Snow uncomfortable. At this point, it's either bare ourselves to the nation or end up dead. Or worse, mourn the deaths of our loved ones. There's no reward in practicing restraint now, Katniss."

I don't bother hiding the shock in my face. I push my plate away from me, suddenly losing my appetite. I get the feeling that's not all, though. I've never thought of Peeta as an opportunist, but it certainly seems to be convenient for him that escalating the nature of our relationship is likely the only way to keep us alive. But then I see the glint of desperation in his eyes, that abandon of hope that has him panicked, but he's too used to being everyone's rock that he can't show it. "You're _reckless_," I gasp, realization suddenly dawning on me.

I feel his hand on my thigh beneath the table, warm and pleasant and comforting. "Caution has gotten us absolutely nowhere," he whispers, and there's another surge of heated affection in my chest at the penetrating look he's fixed upon me. His eyes soften in an instant though, and his thumb moves back and forth against my thigh. "Your reticence is more noticeable than you think," he says gently. "So far, I don't think Snow is too convinced with your performance. I've done everything I can...except this. I figure...if we need to make this realistic, to hell with propriety, I'll go to any lengths to awaken some spark of passion in you." He playfully tweaks my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

A part of me feels manipulated, seduced. I can hardly be angry, though. He's done all of this to keep me safe. He's doing this to make it easy for me. ...And I've enjoyed it. I close my eyes as another flash of last night flickers through my immediate thoughts, and I huff out a flustered sigh at the memory of the way his mouth felt on me. "Oh, Peeta," I sigh, and I lean into him as he clasps a hand around the back of my neck and rests his forehead against mine.

"And admittedly," he continues, lowering his voice, "seeing how I can make you moan and sigh the way you did, I can't help but feel encouraged that I can make this work in our favor. You're so lovely when you're helpless to the whims of pleasure."

It's like this for the rest of our Victory Tour. Sneaking into my bed in private, whispering cavalier erotic sentiments in my ear in public. He always springs them on me when we're supposed to be keeping up an appearance, and it's always at a moment where suddenly being weak in the knees and threatening to collapse to the floor would be most inconvenient - like when we're surrounded by cameras. He does it at the party at Snow's mansion, subtly leading me to a back corner of the room as we dance, obscured by so many people too preoccupied by food and drink and their own Capitol-esque trivial problems to notice us. Our dance slows to a stop and he circles around behind me, trailing his hand about my waist as he inclines his head as though to whisper in my ear, but instead places a warm, lingering kiss on my neck that causes me to sigh and lose my balance. He steadies me with a firm hand on my elbow, holding me up as he lightly drags his lips across my skin, then lifts his head to turn his attention to the intrusion of a towering boom and a camera that has somehow followed us through the crowd and just broadcast the racy expression on my face to the entire nation, my eyes closed and brows helplessly puckered, mouth wantonly open. I have no doubt that he carefully calculates these instances on purpose. They're always too perfect.

I'm mortified, but I feel him smile against my neck as he peers around me to send that smoldering, insolent gaze into the camera, then smoothly but curtly answers a couple of questions for the crew before leading me away to genuine privacy where I know he's assured we won't be seen, because he ardently sweeps me back against the wall and continues with his lingering kisses to my bared flesh that is so in vogue right now amongst Capitol couture. His hand travels under my dress and along the inside of my thigh, hiking my leg up around his waist as he inches the neckline of my dress lower and lower until my nipple is bared, which he lightly kisses as his fingers begin to rub a slow rhythm between my legs.

"I'd fuck you in Snow's own quarters if I could," he purrs against my ear, and for the first time, I kind of hope someone _is_ watching. I hope Snow is peering around a corner at us right now as we carry out this impudent display under the hospitality of his own home. I'd bare my legs open wide for Peeta if it meant making Snow feel foolish and uncomfortable just for one second. Because at this point, Snow's already established that our performance was unconvincing. Only it wasn't - regardless of any efforts on our part, these events have been set in motion a long time ago, and nothing we could have done would have stopped it. The unrest in the districts that was so palpable on our way to the Capitol, the defiance of even the weakest districts - this had been far out of our control ever since I brought out those berries in the arena months ago. Peeta and I could have given them the most explicit show of sensual depravity and it still wouldn't have appeased the population into submission.

I realize the act is up, that this is no longer necessary, but still I participate. I tell myself it's for Peeta's sake, to let him indulge for what little grace period of peace we have left as a way of returning so many favors he's owed on my behalf. But the way his mouth warmly closes on my nipple, the way his tongue flicks against it with perfect precision, the ecstasy I feel as his fingers rhythmically rub me to careless bliss, I know I'm doing it for my own indecent pleasures as well. Perhaps I'm using him, but the comforts of the pleasure he brings me only strengthens my resolve for the tentative plan I have when we get back to Twelve. I let my cries echo through the empty stairwell as he rubs me out, hoping they're loud enough to carry up to whatever hole Snow's crawled into at the moment.

On the trip back home, Peeta seems more subdued. I wonder if it's because he's figured out that we've failed. We don't talk about it, but he seems to practice more restraint, that defiant smolder he's come to rely upon so heavily in seducing me and an entire nation having melted back into his typical boyish affection. I awake with my head on his arm and my hand at the center of his chest, with no recollection of him initially coming in to bed, and his fingers are idly caressing my waist as they so habitually do even when he's in a half-sleep. He's awake though, and I can tell by the slightly elevated rhythm of his usually slow resting heart rate that he's distressed. I can feel it in the tension of the muscles of his chest and shoulders. I slowly chance a peek up at his face, and his eyes are clouded and distant, the way they get when he's painstakingly working something out. His eyes clear when he senses my movement, and he instantly shifts his gaze to me, a smile curling his lips, though the warmth doesn't reach his eyes. They remain troubled and sad.

"I meant what I said, on that first night," he says quietly, not even bothering with preamble. "Your...arrangement...with Gale. Take advantage of what little moments you can get with him before our lives are shoved under a microscope after our wedding."

I lift my hand from his chest and slowly reach up to hold his cheek in my palm, and he reaches up to lay his hand over mine. "Peeta," I say, pain and guilt making my voice sound thick and choked. I want to tell him everything now. I feel horrible for having kept him in the dark about how we've failed, especially after his outburst in Eleven. I know how he'd feel for having been treated like a child again. I think the reason I still say nothing is because a part of me doesn't want this fantasy to end. He's been so passionate and accommodating, that I can't find it in me to break it to him that there likely never will be a wedding. Because I'm going to run. And I'm taking everyone I immediately care about with me.

I follow his advice, though. I think I would have anyway, even if he hadn't given me his blessing. I'd intended on a secret rendezvous the moment I got back anyway, and I realize how much I've missed Gale during the tour. He meets me at the old hollowed out house by the lake, and I've already started a healthy fire and brought rich furs from the Capitol, which I've spread out on the cold concrete floor. Combined with the fire, they make the small room incredibly warm, despite the broken out windows. I pretty much could have predicted the outcome of this moment. I tell him my plan to run, and ask him to come with me. He expresses his elation and his love for me. I guiltily confess that Peeta will be part of our crew, and he becomes agitated and defensive. And then the only unpredictable part of the moment, I let slip about the uprising in Eight, about the restlessness I'd seen on our tour, and Gale becomes steadfast in staying to join the resistance. And in an instant, not only have I failed with Snow, I've failed with Gale as well. My entire plan dashed to pieces in an instant, because of my impetuous desperation to make Gale see reason. I can protect no one, and for the first time in my life, even considering my time in the arena, I feel really, truly helpless.

"Make love to me, Gale." My voice is small and thick, on the tail end of a sob. He's about to leave me in heated anger, but he stops, slowly turning to fix me with a look of consternation and doubt. He thinks I'm still trying to prove something.

He slowly closes the distance between us, lowering himself back down beside me. "Why now," he says hollowly, staring blankly ahead into the fire. "Why ask this of me now?"

"Why not? It's not like I've got anything to lose. I'm already about to lose everything. None of us are likely going to see the year out. We might as well indulge in what little pleasures while we still can." The end of my confession is clipped, and I choke off as my lungs run out of the air to sustain my words and a sob at the same time.

The unconcealed emotion in my voice incites him into action, and he swiftly leans forward to take my face in his hands, kissing me so that the sob that threatens to come is stifled against his lips. I'm overwhelmed with a flood of emotion, most of which is relief. My moments with Peeta on the tour were so fantastical, so sublime that I had begun to doubt if I still felt anything for Gale at all. I'd feared that I'd lost touch with my feelings for him before I'd ever actually gotten to let myself feel them in the first place. The way he kisses me now, all of that doubt is instantly erased. His lips are light and sweet against mine, and the heat that radiates so intensely from his body is enough to warm the entire room. I realize I'm burning up in my hunting jacket. I reach up to fumble with the fastenings, but he releases my face from his grip and pulls out of the kiss, stilling my hand at my throat.

"No," he whispers. "Let me do it."

He moves my hands away and gingerly pulls the zipper down, his eyes so steady on it that he seems almost hypnotized. I watch him apprehensively, and once my jacket is off, I know my heart is beating so frantically that he can see it in the vibrations of the fabric of my shirt. He removes his own jacket, and I see the sleeves of his shirt tight around the sculpted muscles of his shoulders, the fabric pulled taut against his broad chest. I fight the impulse to suddenly lean forward and bury my face there. I find that I'm tensely anticipating him removing the rest of his clothes, and I'm suddenly shocked at how the prospect of naked men no longer makes me uncomfortable. Whether this was a side effect of Peeta's machinations or my frenzied affection for Gale in the face of death is unclear, but I'm instantly leaning forward and pulling the hem of his shirt up over his head, desperately wanting to see the fine shape hiding underneath. He seems pleasantly surprised at the way my fingers knead at the sculpted lines of his chest, the way I memorize every nuance of him beneath my fingertips. He doesn't expect this, and our clothes come off in frantic haste as we abandon the fear that someone is watching, that Snow's surveillance could be anywhere, waiting to emotionally extort me into doing anything to save my people. _I've already lost. You just sit back and enjoy the show all you want_.

He lays me back against the furs, which are sinfully delightful against my naked flesh, and there's something sweetly romantic about the way he tenderly cradles my head in his hand as he steadies himself over me. I don't panic when I feel his arousal stiff and urgent against my naked thigh. I'm comfortable with him. I've known him for so long, can truly share my secrets and fears with him. I trust him. His teeth close on my earlobe and I lose my mind a little, lifting my hips up against him so that the tip of his arousal brushes against the slickness between my legs. A groan dies in his throat and he steadies me with a firm hand at my waist, his grip gentle but steady enough that I feel the strength behind it, that I know he could easily restrain me if he wanted to. He kisses my face, my jawline, follows my pulse with his lips before coming to my breasts and devouring them with the unharnessed passion of someone who's been wanting to do this for a long time. I look down at him as he lovingly takes my nipple between his lips, my breast swelling into his mouth as I draw a deep breath at how arousing the image is. His eyes are closed, but he feels my stare and looks upward to fix me with a warm gaze as I watch his tongue flick out and encircle my nipple with a teasing lethargy that makes me reach up and tangle my fingers in his hair, pressing his mouth harder against me.

I lift my hips up against him again, and there's that dreadfully annoying moisture again, making the insides of my thighs slick and slowly soaking the furs beneath me. I need him to touch me there so badly. I need some release, even if it's just for him to briefly graze his finger against me. His chuckle is stifled by my breast in his mouth, and I know he understands what I need. His hand slowly travels down my stomach and traces the line at the inside curve of my hip, but I stop him.

"Gale," I gasp, "Use your mouth."

He delicately releases my nipple from between his lips and smiles wryly down at me before kissing an agonizingly slow trail down my stomach, having to firmly restrain me as I flail beneath him, my hips rocking violently beneath him. "Be still, Katniss," he warns, and there's an authoritative undercurrent to his tone that gives me pause. He's seemingly drawing it out even more now, intentionally teasing me for being so impatient and demanding. He spends a lot of time kissing that curve at the inside of my hip, and just when I think he's never going to give me my release, he continues kissing down the line where my leg meets my pelvic area and finally touches his lips to the slick, throbbing ache between my legs.

There's a moan carried on a sigh that escapes me, long and low, and my voice doesn't sound like my own. He sweeps his tongue over me in long, careful strokes, applying the perfect amount of pressure, and I'm already so on edge that I fear I may finish prematurely. I think he recognizes the signs, sees my stomach tighten because he eases up, his tongue against me so faint I can hardly feel it. That's when I feel the shock of his fingers sliding into me, and there's a sharp pain that surfaces through the pleasure of his tongue, eliciting a shrill gasp from me. It's not very discernible from a gasp of impassioned pleasure though, so Gale doesn't notice right away. I wince my eyes shut and concentrate on Gale's tongue stroking my center, and his fingers slowly work themselves out and back in, causing me to cringe slightly. I hear his gasp as he withdraws, and I peer at him through my eyelashes to see him rise up on his elbow, puzzling at the blood on his fingers.

"Katniss," he whispers. "Oh god, Katniss..."

"Why'd you stop?" I breathe, my voice too shaky to say much else.

He looks slightly horrified, but also remarkably pleased, and perhaps grateful. "I thought...I thought you and Peeta would have..."

I reach down and place my hand on his cheek. "I wanted it to be you," I whisper.

His brows knit together as a small smile tugs the corner of his mouth, and there's such a flood of warmth and affection in his eyes that I nearly drag him up to kiss me, but he swiftly ducks back down to continue where his tongue left off. He slides one finger into me with extreme caution, steadying me with a large hand across my stomach as I cringe, and his tongue massages me as he breaks through what innocence I have left. _This really isn't so bad_. He withdraws his finger only to replace it with two, and I cringe again, but the way his tongue works me distracts me from any discomfort. I think I'm close now, and I intentionally focus on the pain inside me so that the pleasure of his mouth doesn't send me over the edge. He must sense it, because he stops and gently withdraws his fingers. He rises back up over me and firmly grips my right hip, guiding me to roll onto my side.

"It will be a lot easier for you if you're on your stomach," he explains, helping me roll into position. The thought of being face down for this would have otherwise horrified me, but I trust Gale so much that I allow myself this vulnerability.

The fur tickles my face as I rest my left cheek against it, feeling his large hands position me so that my hips are slightly raised up, his hand sliding against the inside of my thigh to guide my legs a little farther apart. He feels my trembling body and leans forward to press his warm lips against my ear. "Trust me," he whispers soothingly, and I feel the tip of him pressing against the entrance between my legs, a small hesitation to allow me time to brace myself. My fingers grasp handfuls of the fur blanket beneath me and I clench my eyes shut, boldly arching my hips back against him in silent assent. He gently brushes my hair to one side, and I feel his lips sweetly kissing the back of my neck, tracing down my spine between my shoulder blades before I feel the splitting shock of intrusion as he cautiously pushes into me. He notices my shrill gasp this time, and he stops but doesn't withdraw, allowing me a moment to become accustomed to the way he feels inside me. After a moment, the throbbing discomfort subsides a little, helped by the loving kisses he continues to place on the back of my neck.

He gently drives deeper into me, distracting me with light caresses to my waist as he steadies me beneath him, his lips working a soothing pattern over my skin. "How's that feel, Catnip?" he whispers against my ear, slowing to a stop whenever he notices me cringe. His hand is lightly stroking my hair, calming me as I shift beneath him to find a more comfortable angle so that it doesn't quite feel like he's ripping me apart.

"Hurts," I gasp, and his hand at my waist strokes me sympathetically.

"We can stop if you want." His voice is soft and filled with concern.

"_No_," I say emphatically, and in stubborn defiance, I drive my hips back against him, impaling myself on him.

It hurts, but I secretly revel in Gale's reaction, a frenzied series of huffs coming from him as his hands grip me in shocked arousal. He's still for a moment, but eventually presses his lips to my skin again, continuing with a slow, tentative rhythm that could be just as much to keep himself from finishing too soon as it is to keep from hurting me too much. The pain subsides to a dull throb that numbs slightly as I become accustomed to the way he feels, and he moves into a rhythm of long, gentle thrusts that begin to inch deeper and deeper up inside me. He snakes a hand down beneath me, and his finger begins rubbing that tender spot where his tongue had just previously massaged me. I turn my head back over my shoulder and he kisses me, his finger rubbing me with the same slow rhythm of his thrusts, and I know he can feel my insides begin to tighten around him as I come close to the edge because I hear those short, frenzied huffs catch in his throat again. He breaks out of the kiss and clamps his teeth down on my shoulder when I feel myself spasm violently around him, my moans muffled in the fur blankets that I bury my face in when I feel the explosion unravel in my stomach and groin. I'm arching my hips back against him and forcing him deeper inside me, not caring that it hurts or that it feels like something breaks inside me.

I listen to his moans, which come out partially choked, and I turn my head over my shoulder because I suddenly have the strong desire to see his face when he finishes. He looks so helpless and vulnerable, and it's an expression I've never seen on him before, his eyes closed and his brow creased, jaw flexed over clenched teeth. He could almost be in pain. He falls panting against my back, and I feel his undulating spasms inside me, and my heart skips as I suddenly realize the risk we just took, frantically calculating in my head where I am in my monthly courses. I wince and bury my face back in the furs, cursing myself for my carelessness. I feel like this is something Gale would have thought about and taken extra precaution to prevent, but then I remember our conversation that day of the reaping, about how he wants kids eventually, and I can't help but feel he did it on purpose. I don't say anything to him about it.

He stays inside me for a long moment, letting us both come down, and his fingers lazily stroke my skin as his lips brush against the back of my neck and my shoulders while my breathing slows back to normal. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he whispers, and I immediately shake my head, brushing off his concern.

"It's supposed to be like that," I answer lethargically. I suddenly have the strong urge to sleep, and I feel like we could do just that, tangled right here in the furs.

I think he senses what I'm thinking, because he gently braces his hands on my shoulders and extricates himself from me, causing me to wince a little at the way the new movement aggravated the pain that had numbed into a dull ache. He lays beside me and wraps the fur blanket around us, stroking my back until I'm lulled into a light sleep. I awake a couple of hours later, pleasantly enveloped in his warmth, having shifted in my sleep so that my body is practically draped over him with my cheek resting on his collarbone. His arm is around me and his hand is still affectionately rubbing my back, even though he's partially asleep. I lay there with my face in his neck for a while, hypnotized by the slow, rhythmic throb of the pulse in his throat, and without thinking, I lean in and rest my lips there. He stirs and turns his head toward me, his arm tightening around me as his other hand comes to cradle the back of my head.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice still heavy with lethargy.

"A little sore," I mumble against his neck.

His arms tighten around me sympathetically. "You will be for a little while." He's silent for a long time, and for a moment I think he's fallen back asleep. "I'm glad you chose me," he says finally, his voice hushed and tinged with affection.

I don't say anything. I don't want to admit it to him, but there was no question about it, there was no more obvious of a choice. I want this moment to last forever. There's a sinking feeling in my stomach when my mind wanders to Peeta. It only just occurs to me, all those indiscretions on the tour, all the times he pleasured me, I never once reciprocated. And here's my first real romantic moment with Gale and I give him all of my body. I hate my selfishness. I swiftly get up, pulling my clothes on in silence as Gale watches me with mild concern. He doesn't say anything though, and moves to get dressed as well. His eyes fall to the blood staining the white fur blanket, and he gives a slight grimace that's lit by a smile.

"I suppose it's unfortunate that my mother does all the district's laundry," he says, stooping down to roll them up after he's dressed.

"Just throw them away," I say hastily, wanting to hide all evidence of this liaison.

He looks up at me as though I'm mad. "These are from the Capitol," he says emphatically. "They must have cost a fortune."

I shrug, not wanting to look at them. "I can afford it now." I hate myself as I say it.

He takes them anyway, but never makes it back. I'm unsure what happens to them when the new Head Peacekeeper strings him up for public torture. I understand that simply running away will never work, because it's all gotten so much bigger than that. If I marry Peeta, I'm in some way complying with the Capitol's demands. If I join Gale in the rebellion, I'm selfishly hurting Peeta. I curse the situation again, the cruelty of having to choose. _Why can't I just have them both?_ It becomes a daunting question in the weeks to follow. An _impossible_ question when the Quarter Quell is announced and we realize we're going back in the arena. I take pleasure in the small victory of the appearance of my monthly bleeding, a mild reprieve that my emotional carelessness didn't result in a disaster, for once.

Haymitch's counsel in my frenzied panic following the announcement is succinct enough. _You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know_. In truth, that could apply to Gale and Peeta alike.

_Why can't I have them both_.

I surprise myself with my own resolute sense of calm. Snow can't kill either of us, even in the arena now. It will mean making at least one of us a martyr. The nation has fallen hopelessly in love with us. And The Capitol is built on a weak foundation, thanks to the lack of foresight on the part of its pioneers. So dependent on the districts for all of its resources, it would collapse when the districts rebel - which has already begun. I'm calmly convinced that Peeta and I are going to make it out of this alive. I'm going to make sure of it. And to hell with custom.

After all of this is done, I'll be entitled to my selfishness - and I damn well _will_ have them both.

* * *

**A/N: I've written a companion piece/sequel to this one from Peeta's POV entitled _Always_. Enjoy.**


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